


Attachment Theory

by lieutenantcommander (LieutenantKevinRiley)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, What is canon?? We just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantKevinRiley/pseuds/lieutenantcommander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> “I don’t care about that. You’re not my father, and I don’t-”</i> </p><p> <i>“Yes, yes, I know. I know very well that I’m not Thomas Wayne, because you’ve never let me forget it." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Attachment Theory

**Author's Note:**

> A plot bunny that doesn't quite fit properly into any established canon, and really only exists because of my as-yet-unfulfilled need to see the fact of Alfred basically being Bruce's foster father since he was eight addressed. Inspired partially by my ramblings [here](http://prettyboymccoy.tumblr.com/post/103590534135/im-not-interested-in-watching-gotham-at-all), partly by [this scene](http://unthinkableyouandme.tumblr.com/post/98783660299/been-all-over-the-bloody-house-looking-for-you), and not-really-a-rewrite of [this scene.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVTqaJjNH7M) Despite drawing inspiration from two remakes of the Batman franchise, it's not really part of either one. I guess you can just consider this a weird wobbly version of canon that you can apply (or not) as you see fit.
> 
> One thing that I've always wanted to see in the Alfred/Bruce relationship is them reacting to each other as a parent and child- Bruce undoubtedly has some resentment towards Alfred despite needing him, while Alfred is constantly unsure of where the boundaries are in their relationship, and is aware that he can't replace Bruce's parents. 
> 
> The 'conflict' here is vague simply because I wanted to explore the character moment more than put thought into creating a full plot for this fic. Assume that a preteen Bruce who has been alone with Alfred for a few years has been doing some illegal hacking into whatever information is available on Joe Chill, and he's about to get in trouble for stumbling somewhere he shouldn't have. That's all the context you really need.

Bruce felt the bottom of his stomach drop out and forced himself to swallow, sucking in air through his nose. “What did it say, exactly?” he asked, and was proud of how calm he sounded.

Alfred stood with his arms crossed, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He was surprisingly underdressed, wearing only his slacks and a dress shirt, the jacket abandoned somewhere. Even his paisley green tie was a little messily done, the knot loose. “It was a general press release. Gordon didn’t call, so I doubt they suspect you yet. He’ll be here eventually, though, if he’s as good a detective as they say.”

Bruce closed his eyes and smacked his notepad against his knee. “Then I’m in trouble.”

He couldn’t see Alfred’s face, but heard the amusement in his voice when he answered, “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“What do you think they’ll do to me?”

There was a soft rustle as Alfred shifted. “Nothing, of course. Why should they blame you?”

The words took a moment to register. He lifted his head. “Huh?”

“Well, Master Wayne, the idea that a child like you could hack into classified police records is ridiculous. When they do eventually come here, I’ll explain the situation. You don’t have to say a thing. I’ll make sure that they arrange for someone to stay with you for… for however long is necessary.”

“You-” Bruce’s mouth had suddenly gone dry. He swallowed again, painfully. “You can’t. You’re not allowed.”

That caught Alfred by surprise. His eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”

“This isn’t your fault. You can’t- you don’t need to take the fall for me.”

Alfred was shaking his head. “It’s already done.”

For a moment Bruce was speechless. “You called the police?”

Alfred sighed, but still didn’t enter the room, hovering in that dead space between Bruce and the hall. “No, I called your _friend_ Gordon. I let him know who was responsible. He’s given me the night, but he’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

“So you’re just going to leave me? Just like that?” Now he couldn’t hide the fury in his voice. He’d begun to clench the notepad in his hands so tightly that his knuckles and nail beds were aching, and he quickly placed it down on the table. Alfred’s eyes followed the movement, then flicked back up to Bruce’s face. Still, he didn’t answer. “I could order you not to. You know what, I do. I order you not to go. We’ll tell Gordon-” He couldn’t think of an end to the sentence. He started to reach for one of the innumerable books stacked on the table just to have something to hold, before thinking better of it.  

Alfred was quiet. “That’s your final answer?”

“Yes.” This time he did take a book off the top of the pile, opening it to a random page in the center and staring down at the words blindly. It was a dismissal.

For a few seconds Alfred just watched him pretending to read, and Bruce thought that might be the end of it. Instead, Alfred said into the silence, “In that case, I quit.”

His head snapped up. For a moment he just stared, before beginning, icily, “So then-”

“I know what it means.” Alfred had gone very pale, his lips tinged gray. Still he stood in the doorway, his arms moved down to his sides and his hands curled into fists. “It means you’re going to be angry with me, and that’s all right. I can take your hating me, _sir_ , because that’s my job; to do what’s best for you and bear it.”

Bruce didn't respond. His throat felt clogged with something thick and wet and angry. After a short pause Alfred sighed. “Listen,” and now he was trying to sound friendly, in that kind _I-know-what’s-best_ voice Bruce hated, “if you confess, they’ll take you away. It’s better if I bear the brunt of it, so you can go on living your life.”

“By myself, you mean,” and he was bitter, he could hear it in his own voice.

Something in Alfred’s face cracked and softened. “Bruce, I've known you your whole life. I've loved you like you were my own son-”

Now that was just too far. “Shut up,” Bruce forced out, and he sounded stupid and petulant and not at all how he had wanted to sound. “I don’t care about that. You’re _not_ my father, and I don’t-”

Alfred cut him off. “Yes, yes, I know.” His voice was suddenly harsh. “I know very well that I’m not Thomas Wayne, because you've never let me forget it. Not since the day they died and I brought you home, have you ever let me think that I was allowed to care about you or protect you.” At last Alfred took a step into the room, two, three, five more until all that separated them was the coffee table against Bruce’s knees. “I’m your servant, and I do as you say. Isn't that right?”

A lump was forming in Bruce’s throat that made it hurt to speak. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“No. No, Master Wayne, I’m not your friend. I was never your friend. Friendship is something between equals, between two children, like- like you and Miss Dawes. I said I thought of you like a son, and I meant it. If you want to hate me for it, that’s fine. I know I- I’m no replacement for your father.”

Bruce had no idea what face Alfred was making now, having resolved instead to stare at the floor. His eyes pricked with tears but he didn't dare wipe them.

“But, I,” and Alfred’s voice had begun to falter as well, and that was just too much. Bruce leapt up from his seat, turning on his heel to make a break for the side door and quickly as he could without running. He made it maybe three feet before hands caught him by the shoulders and spun him around. He struggled halfheartedly as Alfred pulled him into his chest. By then he couldn’t stop his shoulders from shaking, and he cheeks were wet and bleeding into the blue starched fabric of Alfred’s shirt. Still he resisted, standing as stiffly and coolly as he could as Alfred pet his back and his hair. “There, there,” Alfred muttered, and the way his voice cracked was almost reassuring. “There, my old son, I’m sorry. I won’t say it again.”

He let Alfred hold him, neither pushing him away nor returning the gesture, but even that felt like a concession. It took all of his concentration to keep his breaths from coming out in sobs. Alfred’s arms were warm and solid and felt stronger than Thomas Wayne’s ever had, and that made Bruce hate him nearly as much as he hated himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this doesn't really go anywhere, as stated it's a little unresolved character ficlet.


End file.
